


so let yourself fall [just like when you were young]

by legendrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Holding Hands, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Quidditch, Shooting Stars, Stargazing, Tumblr Prompt, midnight quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendrarry/pseuds/legendrarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>anon said, "can i ask for a really fluffy drarry fic with midnight quidditch and lots and lots of 8th year cliches? pretty please?"</p><p>and... well, I tried my best.</p><p>title comes from the song 'this is an adventure' by the lighthouse and the whaler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so let yourself fall [just like when you were young]

* * *

_I knew, oh, I knew_

_you've got green eyes_

_I feel, oh, I feel_

_the grass beneath our feet_

_and open skies_

* * *

He has no idea how long he's been asleep when he becomes aware of gentle hands on his shoulder, nudging him, but he knows it most definitely has not been long enough. He's pulled reluctantly and far too abruptly from the warmth of sleep and brought back to the harsh reality of a cold dormitory – one that he's convinced is completely impervious to heating charms. He shivers violently and burrows under the covers a bit more.

“Malfoy,” a voice whispers urgently. “Malfoy, wake up.”

Draco manages to pry an eye open, but the blurry shape he makes out before he closes it again, too heavy to keep it open, gives him no clues as to who is in his room, shaking him awake.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” the voice says again, and never mind. He definitely knows that voice. He's fairly sure that no one else says his name like that. However, the sudden knowledge of who the voice belongs to just brings more questions to his sleep-hazy brain.

“I'm _sleeping_ , Potter,” he mumbles back, trying to sound as irritated as he feels, but his mouth feels heavy and doesn't quite cooperate properly. “I realise the concept might be foreign to you, but it is an activity many normal people rather enjoy.”

“You're not sleeping anymore, you're talking,” Potter points out.

Draco lets out a loud – and very exaggerated – snore.

“ _Malfoy_.” It's almost impressive, really, Draco thinks, how Potter manages to make his name alone sound like a complaint. “Come on, please? I promise you won't regret it.”

Draco rolls over onto his stomach. Pointedly tugs his blanket up over his head, but Potter's never been one to take a hint. Draco still hasn't quite figured out if he's just that thick or if he's just that stubborn, but either way –

“I'm not leaving,” Potter says, and it's the only warning Draco gets before there's a rush of cold air as Potter yanks the blanket off of him completely. He suddenly regrets the day he ever decided to be nice to Potter. He's quite sure he'd never have pulled this sort of nonsense if they were still enemies.

“I'm going to fucking murder you,” he says, but the words are muffled in his pillow and don't sound very threatening at all.

“Wouldn't be the first to try,” Potter replies cheerfully, and Draco thinks the fucker might actually be _smiling_. “Come on, Malfoy. We've got to go. Everyone's waiting.”

At this, Draco lifts his head to look curiously up at Potter. He can just barely make out fingerless leather gloves on his hands in the sliver of moonlight shining through the window. He blinks.

“Who?”

He can practically feel Potter rolling his eyes, even if he can't see it. “Y'know, Malfoy, if you'd just get dressed and come with me, I'm sure at least ninety percent of your questions would be answered.”

Draco gives in, but the defeat doesn't stop him from huffing in annoyance as he turns around to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He grabs his wand from underneath his pillow and points it at his bedside lamp, which flares into life instantly, making him close his eyes against at the sudden brightness. “Where– ?” he begins, looking around the room, but just shakes his head at the sight of the two empty beds. “Blaise and Greg also in on this mysterious outing, then?” he guesses. “Did you give them the privilege of waking up with you hovering over them as well?”

Potter just grins at him. “Nah, just you.”

“I feel so special,” Draco says dryly, but his voice is rough with sleep and it doesn't have the effect he's going for. Potter just laughs. “All right then, Potter, get out so I can get dressed.”

“Something warm,” Potter advises, already halfway out the door.

“ _Something warm_ ,” Draco mocks quietly, as though he would choose anything else. The window next to him is giving off cold drafts, delicate feathers of frost at its edges, spiralling inward. He strongly suspects snow is in the near future. He's already freezing and he instantly regrets getting out of bed the very second his feet meet the glacial floor.

He tries to make himself feel annoyed with Potter while he gets dressed, but his heart isn't in it. It's not as though he's too tired, either – he's never too tired to be cross about things. The truth is, Potter just makes it too difficult to dislike him these days. Now that there are fewer Dark wizards causing mayhem, Potter is much easier to get on with. He's more relaxed. He smiles more, hates Draco a lot less, and there's less worry in those ridiculously green eyes of his.

It's not a bad look on him, if Draco's perfectly honest.

“If you've gone back to sleep, I swear I'll throw you in the lake,” Potter's voice calls up the stairs warningly. Draco scoffs derisively. As if he _could_.

“I mean it,” Potter adds.

Draco just sighs and grabs his scarf.

* * *

His teeth are chattering by the time they've made it through the castle and onto the grounds, though Potter seems perfectly at ease, wearing a heavy knitted jumper with a golden snitch on the front. He's still wearing the leather gloves, clutching an aged piece of parchment and glancing at it every few minutes. When they make it to the lake, he folds it up and tucks it into his pocket.

Draco eyes him warily. “I thought the lake was meant to be the punishment for if I _didn't_ get up,” he says, and is instantly rewarded with Potter's laughter. The sound makes his insides squirm and his skin go warm despite the chilly breeze ruffling his hair.

“Relax, Malfoy,” Potter says, nudging him gently with his elbow. “This particular adventure isn't one of the skinny-dipping variety.” He veers right, leading Draco down a path that leads near the Owlery, but not quite.

He catches on to the plan far later than he should, given the number of times he's headed in exactly this direction – though, in his defence, it has been quite a while. Potter keeps tossing him sideways glances, most likely waiting for him to comment on their destination, and Draco feels immensely stupid when six tall goal posts come into view and things finally click.

He hears voices before they even enter the Quidditch Pitch, but they're too far away for him to tell exactly who is waiting for them when they arrive. That is until a light, dreamy voice calls, “Oh, hello, you two! I'm going to be a referee, isn't that lovely?”

“That's great, Luna,” Potter replies, beaming at her. “I'm sure you'll be brilliant. Everyone else here?”

“We've _been_ here,” someone answers, and Draco thinks it might be Ginny Weasley. “You two certainly took your time.”

“A certain someone had trouble waking up,” Potter says, nudging Draco again. “I won't name names. Have teams been decided yet?”

“Blaise, Ginny, Parvati, Greg, and you on one team, Harry,” Granger recites promptly. “Ron, Dean, Seamus, Draco, and me on the other.”

“Really?” Potter says, sounding surprised. He glances at Weasley curiously.

“Blaise won the Galleon toss,” Weasley explains, looking apologetic.

“And you chose _Potter_?” Draco demands, looking over at his supposed best friend, who gives him a 'what-can-I-say' shrug and mounts his broom, heading for the goal posts at the opposite end of the pitch. “Traitor!” Draco calls after him.

“Can't blame them for wanting to win,” Potter says nonchalantly. Draco splutters indignantly, but before he can reply, Greg runs up to him, holding two broomsticks.

“Potter asked me to bring yours down for you,” he says, handing the more familiar one to Draco.

“Oh, good,” Draco says, rolling his eyes as Greg mounts his broom and takes off. “Wake me up in the middle of the night, drag me out into the cold, and then steal my broom on top of it. Way to add insult to injury, Potter.” There is no heat to his words and he can tell Potter knows he's secretly enjoying himself already.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Potter scoffs, nudging him yet again. “Stealing your broom came first.”

“This game is going to go on forever if you two are planning on looking for the Snitch on the ground,” Granger points out. She's already on her broom. The broom is swaying slightly, like she's not fully confident on it, but she looks like she's thoroughly enjoying herself.

Potter wordlessly summons his broom from the stands as Draco mounts his own.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, every complaint Draco had had – about his interrupted sleep, about Potter, about the cold, about _anything_ – has completely flown from his mind. He can't believe he's gone so long without flying – can't believe how much he's missed it. It feels a lot like waking up after a long, vivid nightmare.

It feels like coming home.

It's not even a proper game – they've got two chasers and one beater each – but it's the most fun Draco's had since before the war. Granger's a lousy chaser, but she's improving as she gains confidence, and anyway, Dean Thomas more than makes up for it. At least, Draco _thinks_ so. He's not even sure what the score is. Or if they're keeping score at all. It doesn't really matter.

He is determined, however, to get to the Snitch before Potter does.

Potter keeps alternating between lazily watching the rest of the game and scanning the dimly lit pitch for the tiny golden ball. Occasionally he looks over at Malfoy and grins.

“Told you,” he calls over when they've been playing for almost an hour and a half.

“What?” Draco says distractedly. He'd just been cheering loudly – Granger had, at last, scored her very first goal.

“Told you,” Potter repeats, and he looks pleased and amused rather than smug, but Draco rolls his eyes at him anyway. “Seriously, Malfoy,” Potter says, giving him one of his lopsided little grins. “Happy looks good on you.”

Draco feels warmth rush to his face, despite the rest of him being frozen. “Shut up, Potter,” he mutters. He's suddenly very glad it's dark, but he averts his eyes anyway.

And that's when he sees it. And the sharp intake of breath from next to him tells him Potter sees it, too, but for the first time, Draco's got the advantage. It's about fifty feet below him, hovering just a little above the ground.

Draco races towards it, knows Potter's following and – the bastard – he's _gaining_ on him. All at once, Draco thinks of the other games that have ended like this, him and Potter. All the stupid stunts Potter had pulled – _fucking Gryffindor recklessness_ – just to win.

And he's just _not_. _fucking_. _having it_. Not this time.

He's not even ten feet above the ground now, and one look at Potter makes his decision for him. Potter's hand is outstretched, a triumphant look already on his face, and Draco's an _idiot_ for it, but he figures he can fall faster than he can fly.

He lets himself slide off the front of his broom.

Potter gives an alarmed shout, landing roughly next to him, stumbling and falling onto the ground next to Draco in his haste to get to him. “Are you okay?!” Potter practically shouts in his ear, and Draco can feel the Snitch, struggling, trapped between his hip and the hard ground. He reaches underneath himself and grabs it.

“Never been better,” he groans, managing to roll himself over onto his back. Potter immediately starts grabbing at him, checking for injuries. Draco can feel Potter's hand at his hip where his sweater's ridden up, and the feel of his leather glove and his cold fingertips makes him shiver. Potter doesn't seem to notice.

“ _Never better_?” he just repeats incredulously, sounding horrified, so Draco holds up the hand with the Snitch in it. Waves it around for emphasis.

“I win.”

Potter looks absolutely speechless. Then, much to Draco's surprise, he _laughs_. A little hysterically, in fact, hand clenched in Draco's sweater, and Draco wonders briefly if Potter's lost his mind. Clearly he's not the only one wondering.

“Is Harry okay?” Luna asks, and Draco realises the rest of their group has landed and crowded around them.

Granger makes a disapproving clucking noise. “I think the better question is whether _Draco_ is okay,” she says.

“That too,” Luna concedes.

“Of course he's okay,” Blaise says, sounding unconcerned. “He's just beaten Harry Potter at Quidditch. I'm pretty sure he's going to have today's date tattooed on his – ”

“You – absolute – fucking – idiot,” Potter wheezes after a moment, trying to get his breath back. “You scared the shit out of me, you. . . you. . . .” He struggles for a moment to find a fitting insult.

“It wasn't even ten feet,” Draco protests. “You'd have done the same and you know it.”

“I think we can already see I wouldn't,” Potter replies, rolling his eyes. He's loosened his grip on Draco's sweater, but keeps his hand firmly on his chest, preventing Draco from sitting up. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Course not, I'd already done it. You doing it would just look stupid. Bet you wish you'd picked me now,” he adds, tilting his head to look at where he thinks he heard Blaise's voice come from.

“I'm not sure how I'll ever recover,” Blaise answers dryly. “I'm sure I'll cry myself to sleep for many nights to – ”

“Draco, do you need the hospital wing?” Granger interrupts, kneeling by his side. “How do you feel?”

Draco positively beams at her, holding up the Snitch. “Like a winner.”

Granger shakes her head. “ _Boys_ ,” she sighs, sharing a glance with Luna and then Ginny, who shrugs.

“I probably would have done the same,” she admits.

Granger heaves a loud, exasperated sigh and stands. “Well, if you're all right, Draco, I think I'll be heading to bed now. It's almost two in the morning.”

“Christ, is it already?” Dean says, grabbing Seamus's wrist to check his watch. Potter rummages in his pocket with his free hand and pulls out the old parchment again.

“Here,” he says, handing it to Granger. “Go on and take this. We'll be fine.” She accepts it, but looks at him curiously for a moment. Then, to Draco's utter bewilderment, she gives Potter a knowing little look.

“I'm sure you will,” Weasley chimes in, sniggering, and Draco hasn't the faintest clue what's going on. He turns his attention skyward while they talk. It's a rare, cloudless night and the moon isn't shining too brightly. The stars are bright and twinkling and he can make out a handful of constellations with no effort at all.

“Oh, shut up,” he hears Potter mutter, and he wonders.

“What am I missing?” Greg asks, and Draco would very much like to know the answer to that himself, but Granger just laughs, not unkindly.

“I'll tell you later,” she promises, and their voices are growing more distant by the second. He decides not to focus on it. The adrenaline from the end of the match is wearing off, leaving behind sleepy contentment. Potter's hand is still on his stomach, stroking the fabric of his sweater absently and it makes Draco feel warm despite the cold, hard ground underneath him.

“What are you staring at?” he asks curiously.

“Leo,” Draco says, pointing vaguely upward.

“I've always been rubbish at astronomy,” Potter admits. “Never could figure out which stars and constellations were which. They just look like a bunch of lights. Pretty lights, of course, but still.”

“You're not looking carefully enough,” Draco insists. It doesn't seem like Potter is going to let him up any time soon, so instead Draco pulls him down to the ground next to him. Potter makes a startled sound, but doesn't protest, even when Draco grabs his hand and lifts it up. “There,” he says. “See that bright one there?”

Potter squints. “The bluish one?”

“Right. That's Regulus. The lion's heart.” He guides Potter's hand upward, then around in a sort of backwards question mark. “That's the lion's head. And these three here –“ he guides their joined hands to a little triangle of stars, “– are the lion's tail. Do you see?”

“Sort of,” Potter says. “What about that one?” he asks, pointing at a spot close to Leo.

Draco sighs. “That would be _Jupiter_ , Potter.”

Potter sniggers. “Told you I'm rubbish. If it hadn't been for Hermione, I don't think I'd have ever passed. You don't even want to know about the ice/mice mix-up.”

“Ice mice are delicious,” Draco says absently, lowering their hands. Potter doesn't let go and Draco resolutely ignores the fact that his heart is practically slamming against his ribcage because this doesn't. mean. _anything_.

“Hey,” Potter says quietly after a moment, and something in his voice makes Draco turn his head to look at him, “can you show me which one Sirius is?” All of Potter's emotions, every single one of his losses – they're all written so plainly on his face that Draco has trouble forming words. Instead, he just swallows around the lump in his throat and tightens his grip on the hand clasped in his own before bringing it back up to gesture at the inky black sky.

“There,” he murmurs once Potter's fingertip has lined up with the bright, flashing white and blue star.

Potter's fingers tangle with his own as he lowers them again. “Thanks,” he says, squeezing gently, and between the hushed words and the calloused thumb stroking the back of his hand, Draco doesn't know what to say to that. Potter saves him the trouble. “How do you know so much about this stuff, anyway?”

Draco scoffs. “Half my family is _named_ after stars and constellations, Potter. That alone should tell you the kind of upbringing I had.”

A slow smile forms on Potter's face. “That's right, I forgot, _Draco_. Go on, then, which star is yours?”

“Draco is a constellation, thank you very much,” Draco mutters, but he points out the constellation nonetheless. It's faint and some of the stars are hard to see this time of year, but Potter just nods when Draco points them out.

“Looks like a snake,” he says thoughtfully, turning his head this way and that to see it better. Draco snorts.

“Good to know you're just as bad at Latin as you are at Astronomy,” he says. “Draco is the dragon constellation.”

“I know that,” Potter insists. “It still _looks_ like a snake.”

Draco huffs a little indignantly. Exhales again when it makes his breath puff out in front of him in a little cloud. Beside him, Potter gives a little start.

“I think I just saw a shooting star,” he says, pointing to the little patch of sky he'd been gazing so fixedly at.

“A meteor?” Draco says, a little amused by Potter's childish delight at something so little. “I'm not surprised; they are quite common around this time.” Sure enough, another streaks through the sky as he watches.

“I guess I've just never seen one,” Potter admits, making an awkward little move with his shoulders that Draco supposes is meant to be a shrug. “Never had much time for stargazing before. Muggle children are taught to wish on them, did you know? They think they're magic.”

Draco scoffs. He's about to comment on how ridiculous even the mere _concept_ , of wishing on a meteorite is, but then he hums thoughtfully, turning over to see Potter's face more clearly, careful to keep their hands linked together. Because Potter brought this up for a _reason._ “You made a wish,” he guesses, from the look on Potter's face. He's always so very expressive. Or maybe Draco's just good at reading him.

“Maybe,” Potter says, looking a little embarrassed. “It's stupid, I know, but. . . .”

Draco grins at him. “Go on then, Potter. What did you wish for?”

“I can't tell you that,” Potter says, feigning indignation. “It won't come true if I tell.”

Draco blinks at him. “That's absurd. Magic doesn't work based on whether or not someone else _knows_ about it.”

“What about Fidelius charms?” Potter says, irritatingly smug.

“Sure,” Draco replies, rolling his eyes, “if you want to use an overly simplified definition of an immensely complex charm. You're saying you don't trust me to be your Secret Keeper?”

Potter huffs out a quiet little laugh and turns to look at him and for a second Draco can't breathe because those startlingly green eyes are so very close.

He's not stupid. He may not have very much experience with situations of this sort, but he still knows where this is going. It's just getting there that's the delicate part.

Potter's holding on to his hand so tightly it should hurt, but it just feels reassuring, like a promise that whatever this odd space is between friendship and _more_ is, they're at least in it together.

He feels it for the second time that night. The rush of adrenaline, the impulse to do something daring, something reckless, and Potter's got this almost hopeful look on his face like maybe he knows what's going on in Draco's head.

Potter makes a helpless little noise in the back of his throat and just _melts_ against him when Draco finally closes the distance between them. His free hand moves from his own side to Draco's neck, pulling him closer, fitting their mouths more firmly together. The gloved hand at his neck is cold, but Potter's mouth is warm on his as he kisses back, clearly nervous but so very eager.

Potter makes a pathetic sound of protest and tries to follow when Draco pulls away a moment later, breathing hard, and drops his head to Potter's shoulder. Gentle fingers scratch lightly at his scalp as Potter runs his hand through Draco's hair and when he shivers, it's not because it's cold. He breathes in deeply to steady himself, but Potter smells like the cold and broom polish and Quidditch and it's more disorienting than helpful.

Granger's odd behaviour and Weasley's comments from before suddenly click into place.

“You planned this, didn't you,” he accuses, but his voice is muffled by the wonderfully soft material of Potter's sweater and whether Potter actually planned this or not, he can't bring himself to care. Potter is radiating warmth and Draco feels overwhelmed with how stupidly happy he feels. He can feel low laughter vibrating in Potter's chest.

“Not exactly,” Potter says eventually, and Draco can tell he's smiling. “I mean, I wanted to spend time with you, but I didn't know it'd go this well.”

“And Granger and Weasley,” Draco says, pulling back to eye him suspiciously, “they knew as well?”

Potter gives an amused little snort. “Practically everyone does, you oblivious git.”

Draco just hums thoughtfully and lowers his head back to Potter's chest. He honestly can't bring himself to care.

“We should probably head in soon,” Potter says eventually, when the sky begins to lighten.

“We should,” Draco agrees.

* * *

Neither of them makes any move to get up for a very long time.


End file.
